


who am i, when i don't know myself?

by prettyluke (buttonjimin)



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: 1970s, Biracial Character, Internalized Homophobia, Internalized racism, M/M, Maori, New Zealand, Self-Acceptance, also ashton's role is so tiny you could blink and miss it, biculturality, sorry about that, the internalized homophobia is highly unlikely to trigger anyone but just in case
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-23 15:39:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6121249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttonjimin/pseuds/prettyluke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Who was Calum, in the midst of all this? He couldn’t slot himself anywhere. He had no identity, nothing to hold on to. He would blow away with the wind, fickle and insignificant like a speck of dust.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	who am i, when i don't know myself?

**Author's Note:**

> quick disclaimer: I am not Maori and I do not presume to speak on their behalf about the issues that affect them or their history. I did my best to research for the intents and purposes of this story. If you are Maori and find any inaccuracies or bad usage of the language, please notify me and tell me how to change it.  
> it would also be hubris to presume that calum's (mine, essentially) thoughts about being biracial are the same for everyone. i simply based it on my own experience with being half-white and half-poc and not being able to pass for white in a society that values pale skin.

Calum was born into transition, witnessing his mother cry when she left their village toting him around in the wakahura she wove herself. He doesn’t remember, but he saw it just the same, just like he saw her cradle him and sing oriori when he was a day old. Nobody ever loved him like his mother, except maybe his sister, but that was a different kind of love.

Calum often sat on his grandfather’s lap in the kitchen while his mother made dinner. He told Calum stories and let Calum trace the moko tattoos on his dark face. He called Calum _pākehā_ , their word for foreigners, like his white-skinned father. Calum didn’t know how that could be when his skin looked like copper and his eyes and were as dark as his mother’s. Mali-koa told him when he asked her about it that their korokoua was only teasing, and pulled Calum onto her own lap.

Calum, who was shy around his own family and afraid that his lighter skin would make him a pariah among those whose blood ran pure, hardly ventured outside the house until he was five. His relatives pinched his cheek and called him _pākehā_ too, always in good humor, but Calum scrunched his nose and squirmed away each time. Calum’s father only smiled when they called him the same. He took Calum out into the backyard sometimes, taught him to hold a bat and swing when the ball came near. Māori children always followed in their parents’ footsteps, but Calum didn’t think he knew enough math to be an engineer.

The first time he caught a glimpse of the boy next door, he hid behind his mother’s legs as she stood at the hedge that separated their houses, her hands dirty from gardening. Calum’s hands and knees were dirty from helping. He saw the mother first, a tall, shapely woman whose hair was a flaxen yellow. She wore a skirt suit, but the clothes looked strange to Calum. His own mother liked t-shirts and skirts to her knees. Mali liked to try on her old ceremonial dresses, but their mother didn’t wear them anymore. This strange woman wore a string of pearls at her neck that Calum wanted to touch almost as much as he wanted to touch her hair.

Her son came out and the mothers tentatively exchanged handshakes, names, and then phone numbers.

“And what a lovely son you have,” the woman said, smiling thinly at Calum. He kept a tight grip on his mother’s skirt. “Shy?”

Calum’s mother nodded and prodded him out. “This is Calum. He is my second-born.”

“This is Luke, my third,” the woman reciprocated. Joy nudged him forward to say hi to Luke.

Calum didn’t want to say hi. He wanted to hide. Where was Mali? She always saved him from having to talk. Luke looked nothing like Calum, with his ice blue eyes and pale skin. A real pākehā _,_ like his father. Calum wanted to tell them that he was one too, suddenly yearning to have his father by his side instead of his mother.

That was the last time Calum felt too light to be Māori, and the first time Calum felt too dark to be beautiful.

 

* * *

 

Calum and his mother were entrapped in an endless game of _do you want me now?_

The first time Calum went to Luke’s house, he was overwhelmed by the finery. His house was two stories instead of Calum’s own one story house, and there were antiques and porcelain plates on the walls and in glass cases. The couches were pristine and white, and Luke’s mother tutted at him when he went to touch a pretty urn. He retracted his hand, feeling embarrassed.

“Luke, show him where your toys are,” Luke’s mother said. _Him_. Either she’d forgotten his name or she didn’t care to use it.

Luke took some prodding and pushing, but eventually he knelt silently by his toy chest in the corner and opened it, pulling out some cars and stuffed animals.

“What do you want to play with?” he asked, waiting for Calum’s affirmation. By his mother’s behavior, Calum expected him to be pushier. Glad to find the boy acted much as he did, he sat on the floor too.

“I don’t know.”

“We can play with the cars.”

“Okay,” Calum said, happy he had volunteered something first. He watched as Luke’s perfectly pale fingers closed over a car and moved it back and forth, whispering _zoom zoom._ They both lay down on their stomachs and played with the cars in silence, listening to their mothers talk.

“So you’re—where are you from exactly?”

“We are from here in New Zealand,” Joy said proudly. “I grew up in my native village. Calum’s father is like you. He is white.”

“Hm.” Luke’s mother’s mouth twisted slightly. She gave Calum an uneasy feeling. She glanced at him, and he quickly looked back at the cars. Luke was completely focused on them, making car noises. Calum couldn’t find his voice.

“And your family?”

“Let’s see, I married Andrew when we were in college at the University of Auckland. He’s a lawyer, you see. I had my first son, Ben, right out of college, then Jack a year later, and then Luke was a surprise in another three years. They’re all very smart, well-mannered boys. I think they’ll be very good businessmen someday.”

“They are so young,” Joy said, looking over at Calum fondly. “My Mali, she is very smart. I am glad for that. She will not be like me, I think. She’ll do okay.”

“Is she pretty?”

“I think so,” Joy said, nodding.

“So she’ll marry well, then.”

“If she wants. Perhaps she will be a businesswoman.”

Luke’s mother gave Calum’s a surprised look, as though she hadn’t considered it. Calum hadn’t, but he was five, so he didn’t consider very much.

“Do you like that car?” Luke asked him. “If you want mine you can have it.” Luke was looking at him with those perfect blue eyes, voice barely a whisper to avoid alerting their mothers. He was waiting sweetly for Calum to tell him what he want. He wasn’t pushy, it was less than that. He was waiting for Calum to push him around.

Calum said no, he was fine.

“You speak English remarkably well,” Luke’s mother said. Calum frowned at his toy car. Why wouldn’t she? She always spoke to Calum and Mali in English. She only spoke Te Reo to her own father.

Calum didn’t anticipate his mother’s clipped tone. “The missionaries taught us English. Some of us don’t even remember Te Reo.”

“Well, thank goodness for that,” Luke’s mother exclaimed. “You’re lucky they taught you so you wouldn’t have to go blundering about here in the real world.”

Calum tried to focus on playing with Luke, but Luke was equally shy, and his attention was repeatedly drawn back to the painful conversation just feet away. When they left that day, his mother held his hand bruisingly tightly.

“Can I call you Mum?” Calum asked once. He’d heard Luke call his mother that on the few occasions they’d met. His own mother had begun to try and dress more like Luke’s, wearing the few dresses she owned instead of her casual clothes. Luke always wore a sweater vest and collared shirt with his pants, hair slicked back, the perfect picture of a son. He didn’t seem to mind Calum’s lack of prim clothing; he opened up quickly to Calum, glad to find another playmate.

“What’s wrong with Whaea?” his mother asked, her face contorting into confusion. “You’ve always called me that, tama.”

Calum struggled to explain. “It’s just. Luke calls his mother Mum.”

“Luke does not have your heritage.”

 _I don’t want my heritage,_ Calum wanted to say, stomp his foot and throw a fit. But he hated to see his mother so disappointed. Still, he felt embarrassed when their Māori heritage showed in front of Luke, who was so perfectly European.

They just weren’t the same, Calum knew. Luke’s family was sophisticated and wealthy and elite. His own family was a middle-class hodgepodge of two cultures and Calum was stuck in the middle. As the years went on, his mother picked up on his discontent and tried harder to be a perfect New Zealand wife. She never looked at her Māori clothes anymore, and she did her best to make egg salad sandwiches and lemonade for those days in the park with Luke’s family. Calum didn’t know who she was doing it for, him or herself.

_Do you want us now? Do you want us now?_

Luke never talked in his mother’s presence, only when they were playing in his room with the housekeeper bustling up and down the halls. Calum liked the housekeeper, who was a warm woman with three children, the oldest of which she sometimes brought to work. The housekeeper made them grilled cheese sandwiches and treated them like her own children. Calum liked her son, too, who was as nice as Luke and just a little more assertive. It gave their play time direction.

When Calum was eight, he made the biggest mistake. While Luke’s mother was out picking up groceries, Luke tugged him into his mother’s room.

“She has all these pretty dresses,” Luke whispered, a hopeful smile on his face. “She has lots of pretty thing, but she never lets me touch.”

Calum felt his heart swell with desire when Luke opened a chest at the end of the bed. Beautiful old dresses, probably vintage, silk and lace and satin and chiffon, were piled together inside. He and Luke both reached out to touch it, equally awed in their boyish youth by the mounds of soft and luxurious fabric. Calum thought first of how his mother would look in them, then how Mali would look in them, and then, finally, how he would _feel_ with the smooth fabric sliding against his skin, a big skirt tripping him up until he fell head over heels in a beautiful mess of tulle. The thought crossed his mind and then fleeted away, but he couldn’t stop himself from touching.

When they heard Luke’s mother come down the hall, they sprang away from the chest in mutual fear. Luke was not immune to his mother’s hands or words; the youngest and the smallest of the family, he often bore the brunt of her disapproval. He already diverged from her constructed future for him, splitting from his brother’s footsteps to take the path less traveled. He caught the back of her hand now and then when his mischief and his love for exciting Calum with adventures like these led them into trouble. Luke tried to shut it, but the old trunk’s latch wouldn’t close. He pushed with all his might, already looking terrified of the consequences their indiscretion might bring.

They’d caught a corner of a dress between the lid and the chest, and Calum reached forward to shove it back in. In that precise moment, Luke’s mother wound around the corner and received an eyeful of two bashful, nervous boys trying to shut the chest.

“Well, I never,” she gasped, her face clouded with rage. “Get away from there! You boys have no right to be in here. Get out, out!”

She saw Calum trying to tamp the clothes back down to shut the overflowing chest and exploded. “Keep your filthy hands to yourself! You’ll ruin the fabric.”

Calum wasn’t quick enough, and she reached forward and smacked his hand. With a tiny inhalation, he pulled his hand back and cowered away.

“Mum,” Luke whispered, afraid. “We’re sorry.”

“I want you out of my house,” she snapped at Calum, pointing at the doorway. “Go. And tell your good-for-nothing family that they aren’t welcome here anymore.”

Calum wondered vaguely, through the thrum of his heartbeat in his ears, if they were ever welcome, or if it was for show, like the pretty china plates nobody ate on.

_Do you want us now?_

No, Calum knew. No matter how white his mother tried to be for him, they could never transcend their skin.

 

* * *

 

Calum was accustomed to feeling out of place, so this was nothing new, except he couldn’t see it. He already felt an outcast in his family and at school, where he was either too brown or too white, unable to connect with one singular identity. Most of the time, he simply felt discarded and invisible. Too often, though, he stood in front of the mirror after his bath and hated. He wanted Luke’s easy grace, but he couldn’t fault Luke for the universe’s whim, nor could he fault his parents for the universe’s folly. Luke wasn’t well-loved anywhere, at home or at school, and stuck close to Calum’s side, but Calum felt even less loved, a black sheep among his peers. He and Mali were blessed to attend a nice private school that most Māori children could not afford to attend. It was thanks to his father. There were only a couple other Māori children at their school, and so Calum felt visibly dark, despite the relatively light pallor of his skin in comparison to his mother’s or grandfather’s. There was no escaping his ethnicity.

But though he could lay his arm next to Luke’s and see the noticeable difference in coloring, when he stood next to Luke, he couldn’t see who they liked. Luke said he liked Madeline. Calum agreed out loud, but personally felt no urge to conquest for her love. He felt a magnetic pull to Luke instead. Nothing more than a physical attraction, he decided. Luke was more like a brother, however different in coloring. But he thought about the hard lines of Luke’s body and the hard lines of his own, both too thin to be men at sixteen but lacking the curves of a woman, all the same. Calum liked that. He wanted to lie with a man’s body, or at least a boy’s, where the sharp cut of his hips would recede into a thatch of hair, a veil for the sexuality that lay underneath. He wanted to feel a man’s hand grip his own and run his fingers over rigid muscles and say yes, _this is my lover._

He met Luke on the cricket field at school and hedged around, pulling at his uniform shirt to alleviate the heat.

“I don’t see why you dragged me out here,” Luke told him, frowning in his generally disgruntled way. “What’s so important you couldn’t say it somewhere else?”

It was 1974, and Calum had quite a bit of important things to say that he was sure anyone would condemn him for but Luke.

“I don’t think I really like Madeline,” Calum mumbled. He sat down on the first row of the bleachers, sun beating down heavily on his shoulders and back. His discarded blazer wound its way back and forth between his fingers, his knees burning in the heat where his shorts rode up. “She’s really nice, and pretty. But I don’t think I’m attracted to her.”

Calum glanced up at Luke, hoping and hoping. Luke’s hair, a curly mop of yellow, shone in the sun. He wished for the same. The girls didn’t exactly fall at his feet, but nobody looked at him twice for being strange and out of place. Calum was at the bottom of the heap.

“So?” Luke said, blankly. He didn’t get it. “She would never date you, anyway.”

Calum didn’t feel stung, and never had with Luke’s brutality in the way he delivered news. He didn’t feel Luke’s judgment in it, only an honest pair of eyes and an equally honest mouth. “I know,” he said, and he did. As if he really cared about Madeline, anyway; he and Luke talked about her in a detached, vacant way, and he could _tell_ Luke’s interest was forced, and that’s why he was praying Atua and whatever other gods or spirits concerned would take mercy.

“So that’s what you brought me here to say? I don’t mind, obviously,” Luke said with a teasing smile. “It’s just a crush.”

“I think I might not even like girls,” Calum whispered. “And I think you might not either, or you wouldn’t—” Calum stopped short, unable to say what he wanted to. _Or you wouldn’t talk so flippantly of Madeline, or you wouldn’t have turned her down, or you wouldn’t have brought out those dresses when we were eight._

Luke’s mouth parted slowly, and his composure shifted. Calum witnessed the transition from the Luke he presented and the Luke he hid. “You shouldn’t say things like that,” Luke said quietly. “It’s not right.”

“I know,” Calum said.

“You might be comfortable, but not all of us are,” Luke added, rattled. “Don’t presume.”

Calum didn’t know what that meant. Comfortable saying it? Comfortable _being_ it? And what was _it_?

“Prove me wrong,” Calum said, and he shook like a child, begging for validation, a wiriwiri, a trembling shimmer. Who was he, in the midst of all this? He couldn’t slot himself anywhere. He had no identity, nothing to hold on to. He would blow away with the wind, fickle and insignificant like a speck of dust. “Now you know there is nothing between us we can’t say.”

Luke chewed the inside of his cheek, hollowing his cheeks to make his cheekbones sharper and his expression colder. Behind the mask, Calum knew there was fear and uncertainty. It made Calum feel less alone, but he felt like a villain, talking about matters he knew he shouldn’t.

“I’m not interested in you,” Luke said, and again Calum felt no hurt, because he reciprocated Luke’s lack of interest.

“I’m not interested in you either,” Calum quickly defended himself. “Prove me wrong, Luke.”

It was a bold command, considering Calum had quite a bit to lose here, including Luke’s friendship. He didn’t know what he was asking to see or hear, but he wasn’t expecting to feel Luke’s perfect porcelain hand cup his face and his perfect rosy lips find their way to Calum’s.

Just a sweet, brief peck. Calum felt a blush spread through his cheeks, and on shook his hands, _wiriwiri wiriwiri_ until the word itself sounded like a tremor in his head. It was perfect, it was as it should be; a boy’s lips, just not a boy he wanted. But that was okay. It was okay and it wasn’t okay.

Calum didn’t know whether he should thank Luke or apologize.

In the shock of the moment, Luke blushed too, looking pained and troubled in equal amounts, probably, as Calum. Calum felt his own heart beating agonizingly fast, trying to force some blood back upwards.

“We should go home,” Luke said at last after long pause.

They felt that in their shared pain, surely there was nothing they could feel ashamed for with one another. After all, they had done this together. They had both wanted it, just to try, just to confirm. But by himself, in the larger scope of life, Calum felt his shame intensify as if under a magnifying glass. They walked home together, quiet and unhappy as the sun set.

Calum’s heartbeat was growing stronger and stronger. He walked up the driveway. _Thud, thud, thud._ He was going to explode. He was a bomb, ready to go off, and Luke had lit his short fuse. _Thud thud thud thud thud._ It was all over his body, scarily loud and clear. He knocked on the door, adjusting his school bag and uniform to be more presentable. He couldn’t tell anyone, he was going to burst open. He had done wrong. Atua and all the gods would smite him for his impropriety.

Mali opened the door for him, and he smiled, but it felt weak and wobbly, and his palms were sweating.

“You’re home late,” she remarked. “I waited for you after school and you didn’t come.”

“I was with Luke.” No, don’t admit it. They’ll know.

Calum went through the elaborate facade of hugging and kissing his mother in the kitchen before going to his room to start his homework, but he couldn’t keep his eyes from swimming. If he cried, Mali would come in to baby him, and then he’d have to pour his heart out to her and she would hate him for what he’d confess.

He swallowed his tears, and then his dinner, and after everyone had settled in the house, his mother sat in the armchair and hummed to herself, weaving a mat to replace the one that they wiped their feet on. She wore her house slippers, tapping the flat pads against the hard floor rhythmically. She didn’t notice as Calum approached her.

“Whaea,” he mumbled, falling back on his childhood name for her. It still sneaked out now and then, when they weren’t around Europeans. Had he called her Mum in front of his grandparents or his aunts and uncles, he would have been scorned for his hubris.

“Do you need something, tama?” she asked, looking up and setting her mat aside. Exhausted, Calum collapsed at her feet as if asking for forgiveness, laying his head over her lap and absorbing the comfort she provided as she stroked his hair instinctively. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m wrong,” Calum replied, eyes filling with stinging tears. He couldn’t bear to look at her as he whispered, “I kissed a boy. I think I like boys.” He relived the incident with chagrin and horror. The tears he had been withholding all night now came in floods over his golden cheeks, and he lifted his head to look at her with pleading eyes and beg, “I am a mistake, fix me, please _fix me._ ”

His mother’s soothing hand only stilled for a second, still carding through his black hair as he gazed desperately up at her. Tears spilled down his face, endless and hot like the lava of Mount Taranaki. He waited for her chastisement, her disgust. He waited for her to turn from him. Instead, she grasped his arm and pulled for him to sit across her lap like a child. Though he was lithe and light, he felt awkward and gangly curled up on her lap. She returned to stroking his hair. He held his breath for the anger he’d been anticipating all this time.

“Do you remember the story of Tutanekai and Hinemoa?” she asked.

Calum didn’t remember it in full. His grandfather had told him the story when he was younger, but like many of his stories, they had gone in one ear and out the other. Sniffling, he mumbled, “No.”

“Tutanekai was the son of the chief of the Ngatiwhakaue tribe, and Hinemoa, the beautiful woman, courted him without rest, though she was forbidden to canoe into his lands. She was a very strong woman, as strong as she was beautiful, and persistent. Do you remember?”

Calum didn’t recall the specifics, but his mother’s brief overview sparked a vague memory. “Yes.”

“That is how it is always told,” she added. “But there is another part that is left out. Tutanekai had a friend, Tiki.”

“Tiki?” Calum was still crying in ugly, choking gasps. His mother made no effort to shush him even for the sake of the story.

“Tutanekai’s brothers were very mean to him because his father was another man. His mother had had an affair. So Tutanekai found companionship instead in Tiki. Some people say that they were so close, their wairuas, their spirits, joined.”

Calum’s crying began to slow. He tried to swallow some of his sobs so he could listen.

“Tiki was another man,” his mother continued. “People prefer the story of Tutanekai and Hinemoa. But we acknowledge that when Tutanekai took Hinemoa for a bride, Tiki grieved deeply, and Tutanekai grieved back. Some people think that Tutanekai loved Tiki more than he loved Hinemoa. There is a word for their relationship, for what you will have. They call it i aroha takatāpui, intimate lovers of the same gender. And those who feel it are takatāpui.”

Calum took a few moments to fully understand what she was saying. He wiped his wet cheeks and looked up at her, his heart lifting again. He had never been taught these words, even though his mother spoke Te Reo to him in pieces. She had only ever looked upon him with motherly love; why should she do any different now?

He felt a warmth spread through him. There was a word for him, for the great unknown _it._ He hungered for something else to cling to. He sat up on her lap slightly. “Tell me more about them,” he whispered.

“That’s all I know,” his mother said gently, regretfully. “You are not alone, tama. Be careful. But don’t despair. The world will catch up.”

 

* * *

 

“You’re being difficult,” Luke says, frowning at Calum through golden eyelashes. The sunlight makes him look even more angelic and sweet, like he glows with some heavenly divinity. Calum’s hair is black like the deep soil; earthy, moist, hidden from light.

“I am _not_ being difficult.”

“Yes, you are! Mum probably won’t even notice you’re there. Don’t make me go alone,” Luke begs.

“It’s a wedding. You’re acting like it’ll be the death of you.”

Luke huffs. His long legs are stretched out beside Calum’s. He never broadened out and muscled up quite like his brothers, like Calum. “You’re just balking because she’ll be there.”

“The She-Devil? Satan herself?”

“Cal.”

“She _hates_ me! She’d probably rather die than see me there. Plus, I’d feel out of place.”

Luke rolls his eyes and stretches, yawning widely like a cat. The covers of Calum’s bed are pulled up to their chests. Alone in the house, their conversation seems unnecessarily loud, echoing in the space. Calum still feels sweaty and fuzzy, and he wishes Luke had brought this up another time. “And why exactly would you feel out of place?”

“Your family is white,” Calum says outright and frowns.

“So?” Luke rolls over into his stomach and runs his finger up Calum’s bare, brown arm. Calum swats at his hand. “There’s nothing wrong with it.”

“Yeah, but I would stick out like a sore thumb.”

“I like your skin,” Luke protests. He kisses Calum’s biceps with a twinkling little grin.

“Your mother doesn’t,” Calum responds sharply. “If she knew you were here with me like this she’d have a heart attack.”

“She doesn’t know.”

“Better keep it that way.” Calum tries to imagine Luke’s mother finding out. “She’d probably call the police and tell them that I forced myself on you. Poor, innocent, white Luke who was violated by the dirty Māori boy.”

Luke snorts and rolls his eyes derisively, lying back on his back so he can stare at the ceiling. Calum can’t find a fault in the smooth, even color of his marble-like skin, the soft pale expanse of his stomach bared to the open air. He looks vulnerable, and beautiful. Calum pulls the covers up under his own chin, always self-conscious.

“You’re leaving the country in two weeks anyway. What’d you have to go so far away for? We have something great going on here.”

“No, we don’t. We could both have something better. I don’t want to marry you.”

“Flattering,” Luke says disinterestedly. “So you’re leaving to find love in Australia?”

“I’m leaving because I want to.”

“I think your skin is nice,” Luke sighs again, turning his head to stare at Calum’s arm. “And your eyes, and your hair. Stay in New Zealand and I’ll wax lyrical about it.”

“Too late,” Calum says, touching Luke’s hand and squeezing it. Their skin looks starkly different against one another, but not so when they come apart. There’s more to it than the tone; there’s Calum’s double monolid eyes, and his wide and flat nose, his thick lips. He isn’t delicate like his white cousins or like Luke is. Everything about him is broad and thick and unpleasant to look at.

“Stay.”

But Calum doesn’t have a reason to. He belongs no more to New Zealand than he does to Australia. He floats, unanchored, his roots too weak to hold him in any one identity. Perhaps he’ll find something of himself in Australia, but most likely, his heart simply yearns to leave the chaos of his half-identities in New Zealand and start over.

 

* * *

 

Calum first sees Michael in the school’s canteen. He knows his name because Michael said it into the mic, nervous and eyes traveling rapidly around, flicking back and forth so they never settle. He gives off a frenetic energy, clutching a notebook in hand. Calum isn’t paying attention to him until he starts his poem.

His focus is drawn by Michael’s voice, loud and soft in equal measures, shaking when his voice drops. Calum has absolutely no idea what he’s talking about, only that he must have seen something beautiful. Michael’s hand rises now and then to emphasize his point. His dirty blond hair falls in his eyes and then is flicked out again.

Michael is pale, pale, pale.

Calum enjoys college, but he keeps to himself. His roommate is a gentle boy with soft brown curls, who always has a kind word for Calum, though the two don’t interact often. His roommate, Ashton, tries often to engage Calum and invites him out several times to eat at the canteen for lunch or dinner. Calum consistently turns him down, though he isn’t sure why. He’s afraid to do more than dip his toes in. He finds himself at home in the writing department, and gets some solace out of staying in his own world. For the first time, he feels like he doesn’t have to please anyone else. He doesn’t have to be one thing or another, even if he still sometimes feels like he sticks out for being dark. After all, his work speaks for itself.

Michael is in his creative writing class on Tuesdays and Thursdays, which, of course, makes sense. Calum sees him off and on in the canteen, belting out his poetry for everyone to hear. It’s bravery, Calum thinks. Calum can’t even bring himself to raise his hand in class, but Michael will pour his heart out on a page and read it in front of everyone.

Michael looks sullen most of the time, but Calum’s seen him smile, and it changes his normally sour resting expression (or is that because he dislikes class?) into something like sunshine. Pure sunshine, that’s what it is. Calum knows he wants to see the pale translucence of Michael’s hand against the solid copper of his own, and he knows he wants to kiss those lips, so dark and red. He wants to be the reason for that smile.

His chance comes in a rather unfortuitous form. He can’t help but notice that Michael is missing one Thursday from class, and he sits there with his notebook open and blank, drumming the eraser tip on the desk as he thinks. Without Michael’s presence, he’s forced to actually focus on the professor’s lecture, which he probably should have been doing anyway. Today, the professor gathers up his notes and stands in front of the class. Calum braces himself for a boring lecture.

“Before we begin today, does anyone know Michael Clifford?” the professor starts. Calum’s ears immediately perk up, eager to hold on to any news about him. He knows so little about Michael, though he’s always watching him. He waits for someone to raise their hand, trying to discreetly scan the rows to see if anyone identifies him or herself. But Michael, though outspoken both in and out of class, clearly sticks to himself, too, for nobody does. The professor tuts and sighs. “Michael’s sick. Would anyone be willing to take notes for him?”

Calum’s hand shoots up out of nowhere, too fast for his stumbling mind to catch up. This is his chance just to make Michael aware of his existence, this is it. His heart pounds as the teacher’s eyes catch on him. The professor smiles, relieved to have someone volunteer. “Thank you, ah—?”

“Calum Hood, sir,” Calum blurts out, and then shuts his mouth and ducks his head. He feels suddenly conspicuous. The class’s eyes swivel to fasten on him, and he waits.

“Thank you, Calum. Okay, class, today, I want to talk about different styles of writing.”

Calum puts his nose to the grindstone and listens for possibly the first time in this class. He’s always felt that you either have creativity, and you don’t; how can you teach creativity? Listening to the professor, however, he’s forced to absorb the lecture.

He takes as detailed notes as he can, writing the specifics of each writing style under little bullet points and taking his time to write in neat, small print letters instead of his usual scrawling cursive. By the end of class, he feels pretty proud of himself, and confident Michael can copy his notes down easily. He feels a surge of excitement at the thought of handing them over to Michael and seeing him smile and say, _thank you_. Calum loves to hear him say anything.

Michael doesn’t show up the following Tuesday or Thursday, so at the end of class that Thursday the professor pulls Calum aside. “You’ve been taking notes for Michael, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“He’s notified me that he’s got mono, and he’s on bed rest for the next two or three weeks until he gets better. Three weeks is obviously a substantial amount of material to cover, and I’d rather make sure he doesn’t have to cram it in last minute. Would you mind visiting him a couple of times a week to explain the material to him? I’d be willing to give you extra credit for the effort.”

Calum is struck dumb first, and then wishes deep down that he’d never volunteered in the first place. He was only trying to let Michael know he existed, and the prospect of actually having to _talk_ to him makes his knees wobbly. He could turn the professor down, claim that he’s far too busy to tutor Michael even a bit, but he feels a twinge of sympathy for Michael, who will probably be swamped by homework and material to catch up on anyway.

“Uh, okay,” Calum says uncertainly, his toes curling inside his two-toned Oxfords. “I don’t know his dorm room, sir.”

“I’ve got it right here, will you write it down? Thank you, it would be a big help for him.”

Calum nods and writes the dorm number quickly on the corner of his notebook. Talking to Michael was not part of his plan; what if he hates Calum? He could be a monstrous jerk, for all Calum knows. Do Australians hate Māoris? As Calum leaves the class, he feels the anxiety set in. What if he can’t explain the material?

Calum doesn’t think he’ll be able to get a word out when Michael’s less than ten feet from him. Everything is a disaster, and he should have stayed behind in New Zealand so he never had to venture outside his comfort zone.

He thinks about the ghostly Tūrehu, the fairy people with the bone flutes and skin so pale you could supposedly almost see through it. Korokoroua told him when he was young that they were spirits who hadn’t yet crossed over, who danced in the mist and played their flutes, trying to lure children into their nets to take with them. And who is Michael but a ghost to Calum, transcendent and dangerous, pulling Calum in?

 

* * *

 

Calum finds himself at Michael’s dorm room that Saturday clutching his notebook tightly in hand. He hesitates before knocking, scanning over the little dorm number he wrote down and hoping that the one he wrote isn’t a seven after all. It takes him a good minute to work up the courage to knock on the door. His hand is shaking, and he fights the urge to just turn around and run before Michael opens the door. It takes what seems like an hour for the door to finally creak open, by which time Calum has completely worked himself into a tizzy.

“Hi,” Calum says too quickly, unable to even force a smile through his nerves. “I’m Calum, um, Professor Smythe wanted me to stop by and catch you up. You know, for Creative Writing.”

Michael looks markedly different from the last time Calum saw him a week ago. His eyes droop, like he hasn’t gotten sleep in a week, and his skin has taken on a rather sickly pallor. His cheeks are flushed with high color and he’s wearing grungy old pajamas that are unbuttoned just one button too low, revealing the dip of his sternum and his sharp collarbones. His chin is covered in stubble and he smiles only weakly at Calum, but it’s enough to soften the illness clear in his face.

“He said you’d come.” Michael’s usually beautiful voice is now scratchy and quiet. “Thank you. Come in.” Michael steps aside, revealing a dorm in tumult. “My roommate is staying with someone else so he doesn’t get sick. Sorry about the mess, I haven’t cleaned in a while.”

“That’s alright.” Calum smiles sympathetically at him, standing awkwardly amidst the clothes strewn about the floor. “I’m sorry to hear you’re sick.”

“Right, mono,” Michael says listlessly and sits down on his bed so heavily there’s a distinct creaking noise. “You can sit anywhere there’s space. On my roommate’s bed, maybe. He won’t notice.”

“How are you, uh,” Calum starts, and then clears his throat. “How are you feeling?”

Michael hums, choosing his words carefully. “I’m pretty achy right now, and I can barely talk.” He stares pointedly at Calum.

“Right!” Calum yelps, and ends up sitting down next to Michael. Probably too close. “Well, I’ve been taking notes for you. Smythe babbled a lot about epistolary novels on Thursday, which is here, and then Tuesday he talked about allegories. He talked about Animal Farm a lot. Here, do you want to copy down my notes?”

“It’ll take me a while,” Michael admits. “Why don’t you come back later?”

“Sure.” Calum stands, leaving his notebook lying on the bed. “Um, do you want me to bring you anything from the canteen?”

Michael seems to perk up immediately, his defeated posture shifting. “I really want some pizza,” he says, beaming. “I’ll give you some money, here, wait.”

Michael digs elaborately through his clothes and finally fishes out some cash, which he delicately drops into Calum’s hand. “I’ll try not to cough on your notebook,” he says, already looking apologetic. “I swear I wash my hands twenty times a day.”

“It’s okay,” Calum says. “Um, I’ll be back in half an hour. Is that good?”

“Yeah, thanks so much.”

Calum leaves the room and crosses campus to the canteen and buys a cookie for himself and a piece of pizza for Michael. After some thought, he drops some of his own cash for a paper cup of tea to bring back, hoping Michael likes chamomile with honey. His grandfather would have tapped out rātā nectar and made Michael drink it, much the way he did when Calum was a child. His own father always insisted on forcing Calum to drink the awful kids’ cough medicine from the pharmacy. Calum always far preferred the nectar solution, regardless of its actual effects.

By the time he returns, Michael already has Calum’s notes copied messily over onto his own notebook. Michael’s handwriting is practically unreadable, much like Calum’s natural handwriting. “Thank you so much,” Michael says earnestly, and accepts the pizza and tea. “Did you get me tea too? You didn’t have to.”

“I just thought, since your roommate left, and your throat—you don’t have to drink it.”

“No, thank you, really.” Michael gestures at the notebook. “I don’t want to touch it and get you sick.”

“I don’t think that’s how mono is transferred,” Calum says, but picks it up anyway. “Did you understand everything?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Okay. Well, I guess I’ll just go,” Calum says lamely. His heart does a little flutter when Michael smiles widely at him. He is almost loath to go, though the messy and chaotic dorm doesn’t exactly appeal to him. He gets to the door, puts his hand on the doorknob. He feels small in the dorm, like this should have been a more momentous occasion, getting to be in the same room as this great idol of his. Shyly, he turns and mumbles, “I’ve heard your poetry in the canteen sometimes. I—I really liked it.”

Michael’s glowing grin soothes the butterflies in his stomach.

 

* * *

 

Calum stops by the next day, and the next too. He isn’t sure whether he’ll be welcomed back, but Michael is enthusiastic about his company, having been cooped up alone with only the occasional floor mate or friend to bring him food now and then. Calum goes about cleaning his room for him, avoiding the multiple pairs of old underwear that need to go in the hamper. Michael picks those up himself, embarrassment tinting his cheeks.

Calum stops using the excuse of studying after a week, sensing Michael just needs some companionship and is getting lonely all by himself. Michael is exhausted most of the time, fatigued by the illness, but Calum can see him slowly getting better. Gradually, the awkwardness starts to fade off.

“Hey,” Michael says, one day when Calum is sitting on his roommate’s bed and doing some homework. “Do you want to read something over for me?”

“Sure,” Calum says without thinking. Michael tosses him the notebook. “What is it?”

“New poem.”

Calum stares at the notebook in his lap like it’s gold. A new poem, and he gets to see it first. “Really?” he says, a smile growing. “You mean it?”

“It’s not a love letter,” Michael snorts. “Just a poem.”

Calum picks the notebook up gingerly and tries to muddle his way through the first line. Michael’s reading is practically illegible, and he looks up at Michael and shakes his head. “I can’t even read it.”

Michael rolls his eyes, a touch exasperated, and gestures for Calum to throw it back. Calum does so, disappointed. He moves to pick up his homework again when Michael clears his throat and says:

“What a beautiful sight you are

in the sunlight, in the morning

rumpelstiltskin spun your essence into gold

just to betray you and leave you barren

but I see what was there and I see what is now

I see time chipping away at your stone

I see you crumbling

I don’t know what brilliance is inside

but I’m hoping I won’t be blinded.”

Calum rests his chin atop his hands and smiles dreamily, his mind turning to mush. “Are you gonna say that one in the canteen?”

“Hm, I think I’ll maybe keep this one to myself.” Michael tucks his journal away again and smiles sheepishly at Calum. “It’ll be a while before I’m up for that again. I just wanted to share it with you.”

Calum wishes he remembered the words of it. He watches Michael with his heart all aflutter and feels giddy. He clears his throat, thinking about his words carefully. Michael still makes him nervous; Calum’s close enough now to see the transcendent sea-green color of Michael’s eyes. Calum wishes he could dissolve the muddy color of his own into something as beautiful.

“How are you feeling?” Calum asks. Michael looks up at him, shrugging. Calum has resisted asking, for fear of being too personal.

“Better, actually. I think it may have something to do with the company.”

Calum does his best not to explode.

“So, um,” Michael starts, looking pointedly away. “I’m coming back to class soon. So, I guess you don’t need to come by with notes anymore.”

Calum’s heart plummets. Michael doesn’t need to see him anymore. Of course—Michael is hardly sick now, and they don’t need to continue whatever _this_ is. Too afraid to say something he’ll regret, he drops his gaze to his homework and tries to tune out the elephant in the room stomping its feet and blowing its huge trunk. “Okay,” he mumbles, forcing his expression to stay neutral so Michael doesn’t see how truly disappointed he is. He was only let momentarily into Michael’s sphere, a little world of magic that he doesn’t want to leave.

 

* * *

 

Calum returns to moping in his room. He misses home, and his mother’s sweet embrace; he misses his father’s awkward hugs and his own comfortable bed. He misses talking to Luke, and he really, _really_ misses Mali. Mali sends him a letter with a Polaroid of her and her new boyfriend back in New Zealand on the beach; Calum wishes he was there to enjoy it.

“You’re moping again,” Ashton notes one Saturday night. He’s got his best bell-bottoms on, and he looks like he’s preparing to go out. “What happened?”

“I always mope,” Calum shoots back. “You going out?”

“Yeah, party tonight.” Ashton waits by the door. “You gonna come?”

Calum sighs, putting his book down. “I wouldn’t know what to do with myself at a party,” he confesses. Ashton looks mildly shocked that he’s not getting outright turned down. Calum is lonely, though, and he doesn’t know if he can take one more night alone. Ashton reminds him of Mali, always encouraging him to go out and looking at him with concern that honestly Calum feels is unmerited.

“You dance, drink, whatever suits you,” Ashton says. “I don’t even care if you come and mope at the party, as long as you get out of here.”

Calum is entirely sure that he’ll just feel more alone in a crowded room where nobody cares rather than being on his own where, still, nobody cares, but he’s restless and thinking too hard; without his mother to brush her fingers across his forehead and say _there, I wiped your mind, better?_ , he can’t seem to settle down.

Ashton doesn’t tell Calum the party is on the beach, but of course it is; it’s Australia, and Calum is just starting to learn exactly how much Australians love the beach. Rightfully so, when the weather is usually comfortable and the waves shimmer in the light, but at night, all Calum can see is meters and meters of sand and black water beyond. There are alcohol bottles propped up in the sand and people laughing and running down the beach. Someone is naked, and Calum averts his eyes.

“Shy?” the guy says, stopping in front of Calum with a laugh. Calum’s cheeks burn. He’s afraid to look, in case someone can read his mind or guess his past.

Ashton laughs next to Calum, a low laugh that makes little noise, just enough to catch Calum’s attention. “I’m gonna go down to the water. Have fun.”

Calum wants to curse Ashton out for abandoning him, but he keeps his mouth shut. He’s rooted in the sand; he kicks his socks and shoes off, letting the sand sink in between his toes instead. The general debauchery and excitement laid out in front of him is almost too much to take. Calum has never even drunk before, so when someone pushes a bottle of beer into his hand, he hesitates to twist the cap off and put it to his lips. After he does, he almost regrets it; it tastes strange and insipid. After a few sips, he gets used to it.

The party is too wild for him to relax in; he’s not comfortable with this level of turbulence. He goes down the beach a bit to climb the wooden stairs of the blue guardhouse and sits behind the railing, trying to single out the churn of the ocean. The motion and the soft shush of the waves calm him, and he falls into a lull, the shouts of the other students distant and muffled.

The beach feels like home to him, and eases the ache in his heart from being so far from it. The Māori, after all, consider the sea to be a life source. Calum has always been comforted by the sound of the waves, the purity of nature that in most places is being cut away. The craggy landscape of Scotland, the one time Calum visited his father’s relatives, felt too harsh and barren to be home; besides, he grew up in New Zealand, and he loved the ocean then, too. His beer bottle sits discarded next to him as he thinks, his bare feet sandy and his shoes a few feet to his left where he’d carried them. He leans his head back against the wooden slats of the guardhouse and immerses himself in the gentle sound of the waves.

Eventually, he becomes aware of a figure separating from the party and making its way up to the part of the beach Calum is in. He squints through the darkness, trying to discern any identifying features; it must be wishful thinking, he tells himself, when he swears it could be Michael.

“Don’t like parties?” Michael—it’s definitely Michael—calls up to him. Calum can see now the swagger with which he walks. Michael carries an air of confidence and strength, though he doesn’t seem to talk to other students often; the confidence is the difference between them. “It is you, right?”

Calum doesn’t say anything in response as Michael comes to a stop in front of the guardhouse, leaning forward onto the stair railing. Michael cranes his neck upwards, zeroing in on Calum’s still silhouette. Calum wonders what Michael can see.

Slowly, Michael ascends the stairs and Calum rises to his feet, walking forward to the railing. Michael stands next to him, smiling. “I saw you walk here. Do you mind that I followed?”

Calum shakes his head, suddenly shy again. “How are you doing in Smythe’s class?” he asks politely.

“Fine, thanks. What are you doing all the way out here?”

“I’ve never been to a party before,” Calum says dumbly. His stomach does a complete 360 degree flip when Michael laughs, as musical the kōauau Tutanekai played that caught Hinemoa’s attention. Calum would definitely canoe into forbidden territory to see Michael, he thinks.

“Wallflower,” Michael says softly, more an endearment than a judgment. “I always see you around, in the back of class or studying in the canteen. You watch me too.”

Calum isn’t sure whether he’s more surprised that Michael has noticed him skulking or that Michael’s words carry the implication that the watching is mutual. Immediately, Calum flushes, ashamed of himself for being too obvious. “Sorry,” Calum says. He could disappear into the ocean. He is small again, swaying, easily swept out to sea. The water takes as it gives. Its energy shifts, malicious and dangerous.

“I don’t mind,” Michael says. “I’ve been missing you.”

“Oh,” Calum stammers, unable to stop himself from grinning like a fool. Michael moves closer, and Calum’s heartbeat pounds, threatening to overthrow the ocean’s roar. Everything is loud, loud, loud.

“Do you mind if I kiss you?” Michael says, so casually Calum blinks at him blankly. His brain struggles to keep up.

“Don’t you have mono?” Calum blurts out without thinking, and then his eyes go wide, and he wants to cry. _Damnit, damnit, keep your mouth shut._

Rather than being offended, Michael bursts out laughing, leaning over the railing. “I’m cleared,” he assures Calum, “but if you’re worried about it, I won’t.”

Calum basks in his embarrassment for a horrifying few moments before he gets up the courage to mumble, “Start over.”

“Well, now you’ve ruined the mood,” Michael insists. Calum groans and hangs his head over the railing; he just missed his chance. The offer had startled him, unexpected and completely out of nowhere. He’d only just learned that Michael had noticed his presence, for goodness sake. But Michael cups Calum’s face in his pale hand, nearly glowing in the moonlight—is Michael one of the Tūrehu after all?—and angles his head just right for a kiss that makes Calum’s heart beat so fast it hurts and his knees go weak.

It’s the first kiss Calum’s had that matters.

Kissing Luke was okay, but neither of their hearts was in it; it had been a catalyst to the purely sexual endgoal. Kissing Michael is like receiving a rush of adrenaline, a sudden shot of warmth through his stomach. Michael pulls back quickly, and for the first time Calum sees some trepidation in his pearlescent eyes. Calum wonders if he kisses badly; he hasn’t had much practice with it.

“Was that okay?” Michael asks with a frown. _Oh_ , Calum thinks. He doesn’t know, either. The thought is oddly comforting.

Calum works up his courage to reach out for Michael’s hand. Both their hands are cold from the brisk ocean breeze, and Calum lifts Michael’s hand slightly, seeing the colors of their skin contrasted less sharply than Calum had expected. It’s night, and the night makes everyone blind to color. Buoyed by the revelation, Calum smiles.

“Do it again,” he says.

 

* * *

 

Calum tangles with Michael, a slick and hot mess of limbs. With Michael, fleetingly, he feels an ephemeral glimmer of himself. Sometimes he can almost feel it. It’s never quite there, always shivering away before he can catch it. It makes him chase Michael’s attention harder.

Michael needs him back to affirm the part of his identity Calum had settled for himself long ago. It isn’t just symbiosis that drives them together; their solitary natures keep them apart from their peers and draw them nearer. Michael’s tendency is to be more domineering. He has a sort of subtle strength; he doesn’t go around flaunting it, but crowds part around him instinctively. Michael brims with a sort of energy that can’t be described as dark, only powerful, and Calum is caught in his wake.

Calum prepares himself to fly back home during the summer break of his second year. It’s been a year and a half of _together_ , and he feels somehow he has a place with Michael. Michael shelters him from the ever present nasty comments and oblivious questions. As unrooted as he still feels, he fits together with Michael.

“Are you going home soon?” Calum asks.

“No,” Michael wastes no time in saying. “I’m probably going to shack up with one of my friends and get a job so next summer I can afford my own place.”

Calum stops doodling in his notebook and raises his eyebrows. Michael is leaning against the headboard of Calum’s bed, not even looking at Calum. “Why aren’t you going home?” Calum asks. His flippant tone is underlaid by concern. “Don’t you miss your family?”

“Sure,” Michael allows. There’s something guarded that Calum hasn’t quite broken yet about him; they don’t talk much about their families, or come to think of it, Michael hasn’t. They talk about the present; they talk about what they would do if someone _caught_ them or the ugly corduroy flare jeans Professor Smythe wears. They spend the time they get together whenever one of their roommates is absent kissing and craving and wanting, trying to fit in easily together. Calum is still searching for completion, an answer to the nagging partiality that he knows as himself. A bit of this and a bit of that, and nothing he can hold on to.

“This isn’t even fair. You could take the bus and be home in less than an hour. I have to fly to New Zealand to be home.”

“Ouch.”

“Why don’t you want to go home?” Calum asks again, a bit more softly. He sits down by Michael’s feet and leans forward until he can rest his chin on Michael’s knees.

“I have a big mouth,” Michael says with a grin, looking up. “I wouldn’t be able to keep my mouth shut about us.”

“Well, that can’t be all of it,” Calum scoffs. “Just because you’re afraid of saying something?”

Michael rolls his eyes. “You’re so nosy.”

“Only with you,” Calum says honestly. And it’s true. With anyone else, he is shy and withdrawn. He is Wallflower; Michael called him that at the beach, and he says it to himself now and then. Michael says it too. He certainly never presumes to know other people’s business, but he wants Michael’s business to be his too. Maybe in sorting Michael out, he can figure himself out too. It doesn’t make sense, but don’t people find themselves in their lovers?

“My parents know I’m gay,” Michael says. He’s so forthright sometimes, no waste of breath. “I chose to stay in the dorms instead of living at home, and I don’t want to go back.”

“But.” Calum cuts the word off and frowns. He doesn’t like things being not-okay for Michael. This doesn’t come up often. Usually it’s Calum who is not-okay, crying late at night as he stares at Michael’s skin glowing in the moonlight those weekends when Ashton goes home. And then it’s Michael whispering for him to sleep, that there’s no need to cry; he wouldn’t be next to Calum if he didn’t love Calum the way he is.

It doesn’t solve Calum’s problems, but it assuages his longing.

Right in this moment, Calum recognizes Michael’s own not-okay; it’s something different than his own. “Do they—support you?” Calum isn’t honestly sure how people deal with it in normal society; he’s only caught glimpses of it in New Zealand, where the word _gay_ and other less savory versions are whispered. Not all Māori people are comfortable with the concept, but Calum’s luck fell in the right slot, and though his father treats the matter awkwardly, his mother and sister are much more comfortable talking about it. Calum keeps it to himself.

Michael didn’t hit the jackpot; he won only a small sum. “They—I don’t know. They prefer not to acknowledge it.” Michael smiles weakly.

Calum crawls up the bed to lie beside him.

“And,” Michael adds, “it’s easy for all of us to pretend I’m not. It’s me; _I_ don’t want to go home. It’ll be an unpleasant summer. They know. They’re okay with it. It’s for the best.”

“You’re coming home with me,” Calum says immediately. At Michael’s protesting look, he says, “I know money isn’t an issue for you.”

“I couldn’t possibly do that,” Michael starts. “I’d just crash your family time. When I meet your parents I don’t want to be a burden.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. My mom loves guests. She’ll be furious if I let you stay here all alone all summer.”

“Cal, I don’t know.”

“Please! It’ll be so much fun. They’ll love you.”

“You think so?” Michael seems doubtful, apprehensive.

“Absolutely. Please say you’ll come home with me, please please _please._ ” Calum scoots over to Michael’s side and lies on his stomach, laying his head on Michael’s chest. Michael runs a hand through Calum’s thick hair, fond. Calum is engulfed in his warmth; he shuts his eyes and lets Michael tug gently until he can feel it at the roots of his hair.

“How can I say no?” Michael says.

God, Calum is all his.

 

* * *

 

Calum can’t stop smiling when they walk through the terminal with their suitcases. He strains his eyes for his parents, Michael in close tow behind. “I’m so excited,” Calum says. The airport, though enclosed and secluded, is familiar to him; he’s home, he can feel it.

“I don’t know about this,” Michael says, but Calum disregards him entirely. He catches sight first of Mali; her waist-length hair jarringly blond; what did she do to it? His eyes travel over to see his parents, too. There’s a flowering warmth in his stomach, despite the chill of the air-conditioned airport. He takes off at a jog, dragging his suitcase behind him, and stops short in front of them, pulling his suitcase upright and throwing his arms around them. He tries to fit all three in, but his arms aren’t wide enough.

“So good to be home,” Calum says, letting his mother sweep him into an individual hug. She squeezes him tightly, firm and loving, the way she always has. When she pulls back, she cups his face, smiling.

“You are so dark! Have you been spending time in the sun?”

“A little, yeah.”

“You left your room?” Mali teases.

“I have legs,” Calum huffs, but lets her ruffle his hair and pinch his cheek.

“Good to have you home,” his father says, patting his shoulder and smiling. “What do you want to eat? We can go out, if you like.”

“Actually, I’d love a meal at home,” Calum says, and then remembers. “Hey, this is Michael.”

Michael offers only the tiniest smile and wave, looking out of place. Calum’s mother steps forward eagerly, pulling him into an embrace. Michael gawks for a minute as he feels her arms close around him, and looks helplessly at Calum.

“Kia ora,” his mother enthuses. “Welcome, Michael. I am so glad you are staying with us. We’re happy to have you.”

“Oh,” Michael says, cheeks pinking. “Really?” His rigid shoulders relax slightly.

“Of course. What would you like for dinner? Are you homesick? What does your mother make for you?”

“We can set up a mattress for you,” Calum’s father offers.

“Thank you,” Michael says, bewildered by the attention. “Um, I’m okay with eating whatever you usually have. You don’t have to make extra room for me, I’ll just sleep with Calum.”

“Michael, this is my sister Mali,” Calum says, nodding for him to shake her hand, which he does. He glances back at Calum as if to ask if he’s doing okay. “Mali, this is, uh— Calum feels the flower stretch inside him, feeding off his happiness.

“Well, why don’t we head home,” Calum’s father suggests. “You boys tired from your flight?”

“A little,” Calum admits. Michael sat by the window, and the cold had seeped in through the glass. He’d fallen asleep on Michael during the flight, wrapped up in one of the thin blankets they provided. Nobody had paid much attention to the way Michael had held him close, or the way Calum had given his dessert to Michael even though custard was his favorite. “I slept on the flight, though.”

“And you, Michael?” Calum’s mother asks. Michael’s head jerks toward her, surprise flooding his face at being addressed so amiably.

“I’m a little sleepy,” Michael says.

“He didn’t sleep during the flight.”

“Well, I’ll whip something up as soon as we get home, and then you two can head off to bed,” Calum’s mother offers. “Maybe Calum can show you around tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” Michael says. He still looks taken aback as they leave the airport and pile into the car to go home. Calum resists falling asleep on him again. A little at a time, he thinks. He’ll tell his mother soon.

 

* * *

 

Michael settles in surprisingly well. It helps that Calum’s family is welcoming and goes to great lengths to make Michael comfortable, much to Michael’s embarrassment. Calum can only be glad that Michael loves his mother’s cooking and doesn’t mind being called _pākehā_ by Calum’s grandfather, still tottering around the house in his old age. He’s always been a bit of a comically grumpy man, but he doesn’t seem particularly bothered that the second generation in a row of his descendants chose a white man.

Calum’s mother talks to him about it in the kitchen when they’re making lunch together during the second week Calum is home. “Your Michael,” she starts, and Calum nearly glows. _His_ Michael. “Is he your takatāpui?” She smiles at him.

Calum hadn’t labeled Michael that yet, but he might as well. After all, he brought Michael home to his parents, even unofficially. “I think so.”

“He’s a very nice boy,” she says. “He seems unhappy.”

“Does he?” Calum frowns and stops chopping vegetables.

“Why did he not go home to his parents? Does he live very far? Is he homesick?”

“He lives pretty close to the college. He didn’t want to go home.”

“Why?”

Calum shifts uncomfortably. The conversation he’d had with Michael comes back to him, and he knows his mother is right. Michael _is_ unhappy. “I think his parents are uncomfortable with him being gay.”

His mother turns towards him, eyes filled with sorrow for Michael. “It is a pity people are not more accepting of their children.”

Calum goes back to chopping his vegetables into neat little slices. The uniformity and rhythm soothes him. “Whaea, don’t you think it’s—strange, for two men to be together?”

“Do you?”

“I asked first.”

She laughs and hands him another cucumber. “Many things are strange. Why do we love at all?”

“So you never thought—?”

“This is a heavy subject.” She adjusts the stove settings and waves her hand over the pot to see if the water is heating up. “You remember that my mother died very young. She died in childbirth. It was common at the time, more common for children to die. I was my father’s first child to live. I grew up with no mother. When you and Mali were born, every year was precious to me. I was so grateful for the two gifts Hine Te Iwa Iwa granted me that I could never be mad at you. When you told me, I knew it must be true, and I couldn’t bear to see you so sad.”

Calum wishes he couldn’t see the sadness in her eyes right now; it feels overwhelming and too big for him to shoulder. How can he bear his mother’s guilt, her sorrow in knowing her son would face a life of hardship? She must have known then with a heavy heart when he laid his head in her lap that the life for which she had given up her village and her people would only turn on him. And it has, by silencing him and damning him to a future with no recognition or answers.

“How could I think of whether it is strange? I want you to be happy. With Michael, if you choose him. Why did you ask? Are you having doubts?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Calum says hastily, shaking his head. He remembers the day he told her as clear as if he was fifteen again, desperate for his mother to give him an answer. She’d given him the best answer she could, a much kinder one than he’d been asking for. He remembers his stomach being knotted up and the sudden wash of relief when he figured out that there were other people like him. There is comfort in having two words for it, the Western word and the Te Reo word. He still feels odd about saying it to himself, hardly ever uses either word to describe himself in his head. Even when talking to Michael, they call it the great “it” or gesture vaguely and finish their sentences with, “...you know.”

“Why all the questions, tama?”

“Because he’s unhappy,” Calum says. “You said it yourself.”

“Because he is takatāpui? Or because of his parents?”

“Both.”

She thinks, humming and starting to add ingredients to the boiling water. “It’s a difficult life. This can’t be fixed overnight. You will have to be patient for him to accept himself.”

“I know.”

“You are trying to make him at home. That’s enough to start with.”

Calum tries to swallow her passive answer. Is that really all he can do? Wait for Michael to come around and stop beating himself up over it? If anything, time is making things worse. He’s never seen Michael in such a state of disarray or dejection, and Calum wonders if persuading him to come to New Zealand was a bad idea after all. Perhaps witnessing the contrast in parental acceptance is further upsetting him. Pouring the vegetables in the pot, Calum resolves to talk to Michael about it.

He waits until the night to talk about it, when they’re squeezed onto Calum’s moderately sized bed and Michael has been quiet for a while. Caught in that endless game of trying to breathe in time with Michael, Calum whispers, “You still awake?”

There’s a brief silence and a tiny grunting noise. “How can I sleep with you talking?”

“Are you happy here?” Calum asks. With Michael’s back turned to him, he can’t see Michael’s reaction. When Michael answers, his answer is measured and slow.

“Yes, why?”

“You don’t seem happy. Is it because of me?”

“What the hell?” Michael wriggles under the blankets until he’s facing Calum. “You don’t make me sad.”

“Why are you sad, then?”

“I don’t know.”

“How do I help?”

“I don’t _know_ , Cal. Go to bed.”

“No. Not until you talk to me.”

Michael leans forward and pulls Calum’s face towards him, kissing him hard and then pulling away. “There. Happy again. Will you sleep now?” Michael grins, a gleaming, cat-like reassurance in the dark.

Calum sighs. “Fine.”

 

* * *

 

The first month of summer passes pleasantly. Calum loves being home with his family, and having Michael by his side the whole summer makes him turn to mush. They have more freedom here than they did in Australia, but they keep their touches to a minimum around Calum’s family and in public. At night, though, they fall asleep closely tangled.

The one thing he doesn’t anticipate is for Michael to fall so deeply under the sway of his mother’s stories. With a captive audience, she could tell stories for hours. Calum can recall a time when he was as enthralled by the Māori tales; as he grew, the magic had faded. Michael, though, seems fixated by her words.

They have three weeks left together here, and time seems to bear down on them.

“You’ve been spending so much time with my mother, I hardly see you,” Calum teases. Michael is penning a letter at Calum’s childhood desk. It feels strange to see a grown man hunched over a chipped desk from his youth.

Michael’s swiftly moving hand stops in place. “You should be happy I’m getting to know the in-laws.”

“I am, I am. What are you writing?”

“A letter.”

“ _Michael._ ”

“It’s to my parents.” Michael bites his lip, looking vulnerable and strengthless. He looks tired, too, like he’s been losing sleep over it. “I’m trying to find a way to word it, to tell them about—about how wonderful it is here, and I, I just can’t.” Michael gestures at several crumpled sheets of paper in the waste basket. “I can’t find the words.”

Calum moves to stand behind Michael and rests his arms over his shoulders, leaning forward. “What are you trying to tell them?”

“I’m trying to tell them how _happy_ I am,” Michael says, but his voice cracks on _happy._ “I want them to understand.”

“Give it a rest, maybe.”

“I can’t. I lied to you. They know, but they’re not okay with it. They didn’t want me to come home.”

Calum gawks at Michael, absorbing this new information. “Michael, I’m sorry,” he says, but the words feel stuck in his throat.

Michael looks to be on the edge of completely deteriorating. He swipes at his eyes, crumples up the letter, and tosses it in the waste basket. Without a word, he gets up and walks to the door, leaving Calum confused and increasingly more worried.

There’s only two weeks left, and Michael smiles his brightest smiles around Calum’s family. The waste basket keeps filling up with discarded letters. Calum feels equal parts helpless and guilty.

Today they sit on the beach, much like they did often in Australia. Michael comments that the beaches aren’t so different. The water, a rich teal in color, glimmers under the sun. It reminds him of the night Michael kissed him, and how far they’ve come since then. He’s come out of his shell, and now when Michael keeps a gentle arm around his back, he feels at ease. Michael still teases him, sometimes, whispering _wallflower_ into his ear just to make Calum blush.

The beach is inhabited by a multitude of people, pākehā and otherwise. Calum sees a Māori couple with dark, noticeable moko patterned into their skin. His eyes wander aimlessly over them and others. Michael lies on his side, curled under the beach umbrella. He stares up at Calum, who sits hunched over his knees with his toes digging into the soft, hot sand.

“You look natural here,” Michael says, reaching up and brushing the pads of his fingers against Calum’s bare side.

“What does that mean?”

“You fit right in.” Michael shifts, smiling lazily up at him. “So many Māori people here.”

Calum wonders about relativity, and slotting right in between pākehā and Māori. In Australia he must appear so dark and strange, but here in New Zealand, in these parts, there’s a mix of colors. Next to Michael, though, he still seems swarthy.

“Do I?” he marvels aloud.

“I could write poetry about you all day.” Michael continues to trace across Calum’s skin wherever it’s exposed. “That poem I read you in my bedroom when I was sick was about you.”

“I figured.”

“No, I’m mysterious and nobody knows what I write about,” Michael insists petulantly. He looks like an overgrown child, the way he’s curled to fit his gangly limbs within the minimal shade of the umbrella that Calum barely remembered to bring. Michael never puts on sunscreen because he hates the smell, and his transparent skin is invariably boiled by the sun. “You look deliciously tan. I want to lick you right now.”

Calum bursts out laughing as Michael grabs his hand and tries to lick it. He of course snatches his hand back in the interests of avoiding Michael’s well-meant slobber. “I’m not tan, Michael. That would technically imply that I’m naturally light. And I’m stuck like this.”

Michael legitimately pouts, looking put out and flushing. “I know that! I mean, you’re not _stuck_ like this, you’re blessed like this. You know I like it.”

Calum admittedly isn’t as conscious about his skin as when he and Michael started _whatever it is_ they do. “I’m not fucking exotic or whatever,” Calum grumbles, though he knows Michael’s roundabout, bumbling way of complimenting him isn’t meant to rankle him. “Frankly speaking, you and all the Europeans are the exotic ones. We were here first. We—”

“Cal,” Michael says, sitting up and kissing his cheek behind the shield of the umbrella. “You know I’m not saying any of that stuff. It’s like—you like how I look, and I like how you look. Of course I like how you look, I mean.”

Calum frowns down at his knees. “I guess so.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever asked,” Michael says thoughtfully, “why it bothers you so much.”

Calum blinks; if he could see himself, he’d expect to see his muddy eyes turn a dark gold with the sun arcing through the irises. What does Michael see? Something different, definitely; Calum probably wouldn’t love himself objectively any more than he does now. “People treat us differently.”

“I’ve never noticed.”

“You wouldn’t,” Calum says shortly.

“That’s unfair.”

“It’s not an insult, Michael. We don’t see things the same way and we don’t experience the world the same way. People think we’re savages because we’re indigenous and didn’t have technology and we weren’t ‘civilized.’ You think people don’t still believe that?”

“Oh,” Michael mumbles, looking horribly embarrassed.

“I mean, look at my mother,” Calum says, softening. “She left her village, her whole community, to adapt to my dad’s life. She had to give up everything. She’s strong and smart and hell, how lucky am I that she doesn’t give a shit about who I love? But the neighbors and the other parents never looked at her like she was worth anything.’

“I’m sorry.”

“Have you ever seen Māori models in magazines? Or actors or actresses? How can you feel beautiful when everyone tells you otherwise?” Calum sighs. “I want to step out of my skin. Get rid of all the baggage that comes with. You know?”

“I didn’t know,” Michael confesses quietly. “But I don’t know how you can hate such a rich culture. I mean, I know I can’t really come close to understanding it in so little time, but your family is amazing.”

“You’d understand if you grew up like this.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Calum hates the sour taste of disagreement and tension when all he should taste is sweetness on a perfect day like this, so he wriggles under the umbrella and pecks Michael’s mouth quickly. “Don’t worry about it.”

“You glow, you know,” Michael mumbles, mouthing at his neck. They’re a little too close for Calum’s liking. Someone’s going to see, shout something, grab Calum by the neck and throw him into the sand. He’s never seen it, never had it happen to him, but of course he’s heard things, and they always have to be careful. “Better than being all pasty white and me. You look like you were kissed by the sun itself. Your skin is the most beautiful color, your lips are the most kissable shape.”

“Gross,” Calum says, but blushes. “Do you honestly think so? You really think that?”

“Sickening, right?” Michael replies, and then stretches, rolling over into the sun. “I swear as long as I live I’m only going to write poetry about you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“It’s a nice thought, though, isn’t it?” Michael smiles happily. “Writing about a beautiful thing. A sure thing.”

What a nice thought indeed, Calum silently agrees.

 

* * *

 

Calum has mixed feelings about the completion of the summer. On the one hand, he’s starting to feel a bit resolved about himself; talking about it with Michael, and conversations they had afterward that he can’t be bothered with, eased the knot in his chest that he’d been carrying for so long. But he hasn’t cracked Michael’s sadness, and Michael finally sent his letter off to his parents a few days ago. Calum is afraid that the response won’t be what Michael wanted. The fragile stability he has managed to find could easily crumble.

Calum has completely underestimated the effect New Zealand and his home in particular has had on Michael, because after dinner when Michael is helping Calum’s mother wash the dishes, a chore Calum and Mali can’t be bothered to do, Calum’s mother says something to the effect of, “We’ll miss you when you’re gone,” Michael tears up. He puts the dish down in the sink and sniffles, trying rapidly to collect himself. Calum’s mother comes over and pats his shoulder, much smaller than he is and yet much more sure of her place in the world. “What are you crying about, tama?”

 _Son._ The familiar pet name she uses on Calum brings on more tears, and Michael dries his hands on his shirt, shoulders heaving with grief. “How am I supposed to accept— _this_?”

Calum thinks he’s asking how he can accept himself and the things they do. Hovering in the doorway, he watches as his mother gathers Michael in her arms and comforts him the same way she comforted him. “Come,” she says, pulling Michael out of the kitchen. “I need to tell you a story. The time is right.”

She sits Michael down on the sofa and eyes Calum carefully. “I told Calum this story when he was younger. Mokoi Island was home to a tribal village long ago, and the chief of the village had a restless wife. She was unfaithful and had an affair, and from that affair came Tutanekai. Luckily, the chief took her back, and accepted Tutanekai as his son. But the other boys were unkind to Tutanekai, because he was by blood of lower class, so Tutanekai latched onto his friend Tiki instead. When Tutanekai was much older, the beautiful princess Hinemoa wanted to marry him, but she was of very high rank and it was understood that when she came of age, her elders would choose a suitable husband for her. Tutanekai wasn’t a real chief’s son, so they were forbidden to marry. But Hinemoa took hollowed gourds and tied them to her body and swam across the water, listening to Tutanekai’s flute to guide her. When she met him on the island, they slept together, and were declared husband and wife the next day. But Tutanekai had to leave Tiki and their friendship behind. Tutanekai said to his father Whakaue that he grieved for Tiki, and Tiki was similarly struck by the loss. Some would say Hinemoa and Tutanekai’s attraction was imbalanced, and that he cared more deeply for Tiki.

“Our legends have been altered as they got passed down, since we didn’t write them down for a long time. But it’s no myth that different kinds of love exist. There is nothing wrong with you. Your parents may have difficulty adjusting to accept you, but they’ll come around.”

“Dad took some time,” Calum mumbles, trying not to intrude.

“Right.” Calum’s mother smiles at Michael. “I’m sure your parents want what’s best for you. Don’t give up; I’m sure they’ll come to terms with it. And you are always welcome in this family.”

Michael smiles tremulously and straightens slightly. “Really?”

“Any time you need anything.”

“She means it,” Calum cuts in. “Like, she’ll probably visit at half term with enough food to feed a family of twelve and nag you about your finals.”

“And I would love that,” Michael says sharply, and leans forward to hug his mother tightly. “Thank you. It means so much to me that you let me stay here this summer.”

“I hope you will return someday. Be kind to yourself.”

Calum takes his mother’s words to his own heart. There’s something to be learned from everything, including watching Michael slowly gain solid footing. How incredible, he thinks, to see Michael smile in peace. He’s starting to believe that he can find his own peace of mind when his hand touches Michael’s.

But for now, he’s just happy to witness Michael’s shoulders finally relax.

 

* * *

 

Returning to Australia is a heart-pounding jolt of reality and culture shock. Gone are the intermingled Māori and Pākehā, and suddenly Calum is alone in a sea of pale-skinned people. He doesn’t feel extraordinarily out of place, but walking with Michael up to campus, he feels eyes on him. The first time he’d entered the campus during his freshman year, a week before classes, he’d felt like everyone was watching him with unkind eyes. He’s somewhere in between comfort and discomfort, an uneasy balance.

“I chose you,” Michael whispers to Calum, “over everyone else.”

Calum knows in that he means not only as a lover but as the intimate friends they have come to be. He chose Calum, with his rusty skin and earthy eyes, his thick eyebrows and plump lips. He chose Calum above the golden-skinned Australian boys, and made him into his own.

They part ways to settle back into their own dorms. Calum is glad to see Ashton hasn’t come back yet, and hopes he doesn’t for some time. He sits on his bed, eyes peering past the glass pane of the window to where there’s a group of boys playing footy on the grass below. He touches his darker skin and thinks and thinks and thinks.

He might be okay with it.

Michael comes to his room that evening, entering without knocking. Calum is still alone, and he lies on his stomach, listening to an old Beatles vinyl that he picked up at the secondhand store downtown. His things are unpacked and put away, and the sun is lulling him to sleep.

“Knock knock,” Michael says aloud. “Homesick?”

Calum hadn’t let the word cross his mind, but his stomach tightens and he nods, rolling over onto his side. Michael crawls onto the bed and holds him, higher on the bed so his chin rests above Calum’s head. Calum lets himself feel small again. He feels a touch of his mother’s warmth, like she rubbed off on Michael in their time in New Zealand. Or maybe he’s just searching for it.

“I don’t think I told you how amazing it was to learn about your culture,” Michael says after a while. “I was really lost at the beginning of the summer, and it felt like a second home to me. I know I can’t begin to understand your experience in that short time, but really. The stories are so beautiful, the history, the language—thank you for showing me that part of you.” Michael touches Calum’s chest over his heart. “And I know it doesn’t fix things, me saying that. But I find everything about you more beautiful than before.”

Calum doesn’t respond, because he doesn’t have to. Michael’s words fill him with complete warmth and he grins, nuzzling his nose deeper into Michael’s shoulder.

“I fall apart loving you,” Michael says.

Calum knows they’re going to grow together, and someday they’ll love themselves. Someday, their skin will sag and they’ll fade in the light. Calum reaches down to hold Michael’s hand. He runs his thumb over the back of Michael’s milky white hand and then the colors start bleeding, running together. They melt in the sun, mixing in a pool of whites and browns and blues and reds.

Maybe his roommate will find them in colors on the bed. Maybe they’ll freeze again when the moon comes up.

Calum wonders what parts of themselves they'll be able to extricate, thinking that invariably, they’ll end up with a bit of each other woven into the wrong set of veins.


End file.
